Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

When Lóni arrived at the council, he was at first glad that he did not come late. However, soon he had to face a shock: the dire news of the threat approaching them, and the most unsettling manner of the council's attendants. When Grór was speaking, Lóni looked at him with understanding and tried to look attentively to encourage him, just if the messenger looked at him. But when Kénan spoke, Lóni's mind became troubled. No, this is certainly no time to fall into arguing, he thought. Although he had to confess that Kénan's words contained truth as well. It was obvious that the Orcs have already struck a severe blow to them, and there was hardly anything worse that the approaching enemy could do to them.

Lóni rubbed his one undamaged eye. He did not believe that the enemies will be so many as to bring complete destruction to the colony. No, but it meant war. Again. Had it not been for long enough, Lóni thought, that I have lived in peace? For the last fifty years, he had not set out his foot into a large-scale battle. Since the Battle of the Five Armies, there were only the goblins when they arrived here, but they were not too many and could not stand a chance against the fiery Dwarves who, after all, were not as many either. But Lóni felt that something bigger is coming. Perhaps another full-scale war between the Dwarves and Orcs? Half a century is a long time, and Lóni thought he was lucky, so lucky to live in peaceful times for the time being. At some times in the past fifty years since the Battle of the Five Armies, Lóni thought he might live the rest of his life in peace. But he knew well that peace never lasts for long. He suspected that enemy will come, goblins again, or Easterlings. When Lóni was young and naive still, after the Battle of Azanulbizar, when the war against goblins was won, he and many others foolishly thought that it is over. Some had thought that it is over once and for all. The old ones knew better, and Lóni was to learn that too, when the news came about the death of the Dragon and Thorin Oakenshield facing grave danger at his very door.

Lóni glanced sideways at Ori. Curious, isn't it, he thought. It was Thrór and later his grandson Thorin who were the ones playing the main part in sparkling the flame of the greatest battles of our lifetime. And now, it was Balin again who has fallen; and war is upon us. And here, he thought, examining Ori's face and his eyes, now deep and dark, but as if with a glow of green light shining inside them; here stands somebody who is close to that lineage too, and also somebody who had been there. Like with many others he knew well, Lóni could remember vividly seeing Ori in the battle. And now, he will probably have the chance to see him again...

The young lass, Kórin, interrupted the discussion. Lóni was surprised to hear her talk. He knew her, but now he was unsure whether it was wise to bring her to the council after all. The air between Trór and Kénan seemed filled with tension already as it was, and there certainly was no need to bring more trouble to the council. When Trór stepped forth towards Kénan, Lóni was about to open his mouth, but Ori interfered, before the leader could do anything.

Lóni sighed quietly. There were Orcs approaching, and the matters needed to be settled. The topic, however, seemed to turn back to the important part. Lóni listened to Grór's words, and was reminded of Óin. Indeed, the all-time scout was missing. Lóni wondered, what was he doing?

[Thinlómien]

Ori had listened his time, resisting the urge to interfere in the silly arguments and only once actually blurting out what he was thinking about, that they didn't have time for idle quarreling. Trór annoyed him a little, he was succumbing to the petty strifes instead of concentrating on pressing matters. But Ori would not rebuke his lord twice.

This girl, Kórin, was annoying Ori incredibly. How dare she talk like that? She seemed to be full of herself, crticising others while having nothing better to say either. Such typical behaviour of the womenfolk. But Ori had whatsoever no desire to speak to her, he knew her name and they were taking part in the same council - Ori wondered, though, who on or under earth had invited her - and that was all he wanted to have to do with her, ever.

So he turned to the third one whose behaviour annoyed him, an old dwarf he knew just well enough to call him a friend and said in a low voice:

"Kénan, old friend, questioning Trór's claim to the authority was the worst piece of stupidity I've ever heard from you. What were you thinking of? Balin's death is a hard strike, but don't let it cloud your judgement. It was not Trór who let Balin go and thus caused his death, it was Balin himself who insisted to go alone and you know he was not a man who would listen to what his second-in-command tells him to do instead of what his heart tells him to do."

Ori paused, taking a breath. He blinked the tears from his eyes. "Excuse me, it's just..." He swallowed, took another deep breath, then gave Kénan a sharp look. "I want to ask you, who would you have leading us if not Trór? Think of it, Kénan, there is no one else. We have to put our faith in him."

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

The sun had already disappeared from Óin's sight. Darkness was creeping from the caves underneath the mountains, veiling the dale in soft shadows. The old Dwarf was lying, silently, on the edge of a rocky bed, wrapped in his brown cloak, hiding his long white hair under the large hood. His shiny blue eyes observed closely the scenery below him, as he lay in the cover of the few crooked fir-trees. The waterfall by his side was splashing and the bubbling water ran over the stones, covering all sounds and sometimes giving Óin a sparkling splash of icy cold water.

Long time the valley was empty and motionless, save for the waters of Silverlode running their paths through the scattered stones of the valley. Óin lay low, resting, but attentive. He wanted to learn as much as he could about the approaching enemy; that youngster shall certainly deliver the news to Balin. And Balin will know what to do. Meanwhile, it was upon Óin to stay here, and think on how to spot as much of the enemy as possible, and be able to get away at the same time. He was lying low, close to the ground, and gripping the bow in his hand.

Now, at last. On the edge of the long and wide valley filled with stones, a walking shadow appeared, and then other, and then another. All three of them were walking fast, treading the water-washed plain.

"And here you have them," the old scout whispered to himself silently. "Here you have them, Óin, spoiling the clearest waters of Kibil-nâla with their filthy feet. I swear, if it was just those three, I would have wasted no arrow to repay them for their impudence. Alas, there are not just three of them, I know. Ha, look, there they come."

Óin narrowed his eyes in hope to discern more of the figures who were now appearing in his sight. There were Orcs armed with spears, yes, and several carrying heavy shields. Despite their burden, these tall Orcs were marching fast, protecting the front of the army, which was slowly nearing the gates of Moria. After them, other Orcs were appearing, carrying curved scimitars, and others with short bows, and still there were more coming.

Óin tried to count. The Orcs formed a diverse mass; small mountain-goblins as well as the bigger ones from far North; and he was able to discern some leaders among them, carrying whips, and driving the rest to higher speed. The large Orcs did not need such an incitement, but some of the smaller goblins seemed not so keen on marching in the pace enforced by their leaders. Still, the speed of the army was high, Óin was certain that it will not take long for the enemy to reach Moria. He only hoped that Balin had already started with the preparations for defending the gates.

"Old Balin is no fool," he muttered to himself. "He will not let a mouse sneak into the halls of Khazâd-dûm as long as he is the Lord of Moria. Let us only hope the youngster ran as far as he could to deliver him the news." Óin clutched his bow more strongly, as he noticed a new group of goblins appearing in the gorge, all in heavy armor, but nevertheless keeping up with the speed of the rest; some of them held large maces.

"You will do better to move soon, Óin," the old Dwarf continued in his monologue. "But not yet, not yet. Hey! What is that there? More Uruks?" Once again, he narrowed his eyes, but in the falling dusk he could discern still less and less on the long distance.

"Looks like them," he muttered. "So not just these mountain worms, but whole bands of them big Orcs... ten, twenty... fifty in this group? And now there are others descending the slopes from the northern side of the valley... so not all of them are taking the path right by the river... right, right, Óin, what a fool are you; you may call yourself lucky that seemingly none of them yet got past you by the small paths, otherwise you will be surrounded... of course, of course... you should have known they would know the ways... they can climb the slopes of Bundushathûr where they are not steep enough yet... and there are more coming now, spreading around the sidepaths!"

Alarmed, the old Dwarf rose, though not yet to his full height; he was trying to keep hidden behind the nearest fir's trunk.

"Óin, my lad," he hissed, as his trembling hands clasped the short bow. "You will do better to move, now, or else..."

Slowly, not to raise any attention, he moved backwards, taking care of not to slip on the wet green stones. "Careful, careful, Óin," he whispered almost voicelessly, even though nobody could hear him through the splashing of the waterfall. "If you slip up now, you will cause a lot of trouble to yourself, and nobody is going to pick you up, no no, not this time... or certainly nobody you would like..."

Óin moved close to one side of the dale, his back to the cold green stone. Realising he is covered perfectly by the group of fir-trees, he turned around and paced at high speed further to the west, until he reached a place where the wall beside him was not so steep and unreachable. There he stopped for a moment, looked back and to the front and then up to the slope by his right side.

"Maybe it is unwise," he said. "but I want to see them properly at least one more time." And he began to climb up.

[Ilya]

None of them had come back.

Adela could hear a few footsteps and the occasional sob coming from the hall, but none of the cooks had come back into the kitchen. She'd lost her feet at some point, and so sat in the quiet, only the kitchen smells and the flagstone floor for company, just as she'd wanted to before the feast. After a time, questions began to pick at her mind. Maybe she should've gone back, maybe she should start cleaning, maybe everyone else had left for a reason. What was being done, after all? Why, maybe there was another attack! Maybe they were surrounding the colony, and all the dwarves with sense had already made their escape. Maybe the lords had fought among their own and there were none now left to lead. Adela screwed her eyes shut and rocked back, hitting her head on a table leg. She got up.

There were too many maybes and whitherfores and might have beens just at the moment. Suddenly, the sadness had drained away and left only a pain in her head and frustraition, which in the absence of any others Adela directed at herself as began to do the only sensible thing left to do - her work. So Balin had been slain! A dwarf and a warrior, there were worse ways to die! Orcs had attacked them! Well, strange thing, that, for orcs throughout time have been a peaceful lot, to dwarves in especial! An attack was hardly to be wondered at, even the Iron Hills, so why should the colony have fared any differently?

When the jug's broken, there's no repairing it with the milk on the floor, Adela reasoned, putting the last of the oven fires out. Most of the pies she'd left in had burnt, for she'd run into the hall at the sound of the party's return, and came not to herself in time to rescue them. One, though, the last red-current, baked just fine, and this one she put aside for when the cleaning was done. The heavy smell, of food both cooked and overcooked, was almost gone now, the kitchens once again airy, cool, and still.

Adela felt a chill jerk her spine as she plunged her hands in a barrel of soapy water. The colony would have a leader again, not as experienced as Lord Balin had been, but had not the great Oakenshield perished just as he came into his rule? And now Dain was undoubted King under the Mountain. There were several pretentious, well-meaning longbeards capable of carrying the weight at the test. They'd secure the colony and hunker down for the fight, however long. Maybe the raiding party was the token handful of the black foe still left in these halls, withered and weak, left with nothing but to search for wandering ghosts in the great grieving emptiness of Khazad Dum. Maybe.

Bending over the barrel, Adela glanced down and saw a taut face and raw eyes shivering as another chill ripped through her shoulders and skated around her neck.The dwarf she knew, the one of sense and quiet and a bit of stolen laughter, not to mention pie, looked very different in grief. Very different indeed. She closed her eyes and in breathed deep the smell of soap and wood smoke. This would pass. The thing to do was get home before anyone --

"Excuse me, but is Vyra here?"

Adela whipped around, immediately embarrassed for being so startled, and for snatching a spoon when she turned. She tossed it into the barrel, all the more aggravated, for it'd been clean, and ducked a curtsy before she had time to study the dwarf who'd spoken. Stout, an open face, grey-eyed...it was the woman mason, wasn't it?

"Na, ma'am, it's only me here now. I haven't seen Vyra since, well, since the festivities began," Adela smiled but couldn't hold onto it for long. "Is there aught I can do for you?"

[Groin Redbeard]

Together, Nisa and Onli walked towards the door on the western side of the hall. Down the centre stalked a double line of towering pillars. They were carved like boles of mighty trees whose boughs upheld the roof with a branching tracery of stone. Their stems were smooth and of sparkling black, but the red glow of torches were darkly mirrored on their sides. Nisa turned left and slowly progressed across the smooth floor of the hall. The distance was greater than it had looked.

Onli had remained silent the entire time, walking beside her with a focused gaze ahead. Nisa was glad that he had decided to walk beside her instead of behind, this would have unnerved her greatly. One or two times she had remarked about the splendor of the hall, but Onli only answered with a grunt or a silent nod and she had stopped trying. Nisa could tell that he was displeased with her, but it was not an uncommon feeling. Many a time she felt the same way when Trór was near, it was as if she could almost hear their disappointment in her for lack of character, girlish behavior, and the almost constant blabber that she regularly spewed in hopes of starting a conversation. Again she looked sideways at Onli, not being disappointed when he did not look back. From his red beard to his green cloak, in the glowing light of the hall, she couldn't help but think how handsome he looked. She thought about commenting him on this but decided better on it: his manners, when it came to talking, needed a lot to be said for, unfortunately she couldn't think of a Dwarf who would say anything positive about it.

The bridge could now be seen from where they were walking. As they came to the foot of it Onli was about to cross when a figure on the other side caught Nisa's eye. She grabbed Onli's cloak near the shoulders pulled him behind one of the pillars as fast as she could. His glare made her feel uncomfortably, it was instinct that made her react so rash, she put a finger to her lips motioning silence. The figure she had seen was a guard, he would probably go away in a few minutes to look after his other posts, but she didn't feel too comfortable explaining to one of the these tough as steel brutes why she and Onli must get pass. Finally the guard moved on and Onli made his way to the bridge again, but just as they were both on it a scratching, or scurrying sound could be heard from behind. Onli stopped and a smile crept on his face, but Nisa felt frightened at the spooky noise, especially since she was behind him, and gave Onli a gentle nudge. "Go!"

Onli moved somewhat reluctantly but he soon was running as fast as Nisa. Up the broad stair they ran and through a long echoing passage until they came to some gates. Onli grabbed a large handle on one side and gave it a pull, its groan was loud but short (Onli only opened enough for them to squeeze through). Nisa closed her eyes as she went in first, expecting to meet a row of cruel drawn swords and axes in the hands of the eight royal guards that held the First-Hall, but there were none. They passed into the hall, the bright daylight from its high windows in the east that Nisa was accustomed to seemed to let in a darkness and a silence that made their footfalls seem deafening. Suddenly before them the were Great Gates, shut and immovable save by a group of Dwarves, or one with great strength.

Slowly Nisa and Onli crept up to it. The guards were nowhere to be seen and voices could be made out on the other side. She started to search the doors for a crack that they could see through but not one could be found. Nisa gave Onli a hesitant look, he smiled, a fake smile in her opinion, and reached inside his belt and retrieved a bar of steel which he was about to knock the doors with (seeing as knocking on the stone with his hand would only give them an aching fist). However, just as he was about to do this, the scurrying noise that they had heard on the bridge came back. Nisa flung herself to Onli's side and clenched his arm. What was that noise?